


Where You Go I Go

by MiHnn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:16:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiHnn/pseuds/MiHnn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her life was not one of songs, but perhaps it could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where You Go I Go

**Author's Note:**

> Although written for the GoT Exchange, this is a different, darker version than the story I entered for the fest. You could say it's personal preference. LOL.
> 
> Prompt : What if they were able to have a semi-happy marriage? What if he and Sansa moved to Casterly rock? What if they were able to have genuine affection for one another? Bonus points for Sansa character growth. I have a soft spot for this pairing.

She was young when she first heard the story of Ashara Dayne, a lady so lovely and sad that she threw herself off a tower because of the love she had lost. Sansa had listened carefully at this lesson, her movements refined as she lifted a lemon cake to her lips, taking a delicate bite while her sister practically devoured her own piece within moments. She had looked at Arya with distaste before her glance had met Jeyne Poole’s and they had sighed happily at such a romantic thought. To love so strongly and to have lost, Sansa thought that there was nothing quite as lovely as such a story sung in songs.

How wrong she had been. How naïve. How young.

Her fingers trace the cool stone under her palms, the smooth touch hard and unyielding against her skin. The window is as pretty as everything else that belongs to the Lannisters. From afar it is regal and strong, but when seen closer, it is hard and without affection. It speaks of strength, but not of love. It speaks of her own losses and disappointments. 

“My lady.”

She shivers, the thought of her husband causing her mouth to tighten as she continues to look out onto the Westerlands, whilst her glance falls on everything and nothing. She knows that she must turn and face him, act as a good wife must. But her limbs are wound tight from hatred and her eyes have more tears to bear. She only hopes that he would turn away from her and let her be in peace. 

“I trust you are pleased with the arrangement?” he asks, his tone quiet, kind, but misleading. He is a Lannister, she reminds herself. He cannot be trusted. 

She turns slowly to face him, a small smile playing on her lips even though her eyes are red rimmed from shedding more than a tear. 

“Thank you, my lord. You are ever so kind. I am indeed pleased.”

He stares at her as if she had hurt him, a fleeting pain crosses his face before his mismatched eyes crinkle with amusement. 

“I do try my best, my lady. I am glad that Casterly Rock pleases you so.”

“It does, my lord,” she lies easily. “Thank you.”

He hesitates, his short legs shifting undecidedly before he says, “This is your home now, do with it whatever you wish. The Lannisters are not known for… affection.” His lips twist into a humourless smile. “You can make any change to the castle and no one would protest.”

She only nods, her glance shifting once to the large bedding in the corner before meeting his eyes. He follows her gaze, his face impassive. She wonders if he can see the fear in her eyes.

“Good night, my lady,” he says curtly as he turns to leave. 

“Will you be spending the night in another bedchamber, my lord?” she asks quickly, hope blossoming in her chest as he pauses in thought. 

He looks up at her, sad eyes for a fleeting moment before he bows his head. “For as long as you wish, my lady.”

Sansa does not say a word as he leaves her. Once the door closes she goes back to the window to place her palms once more on the stone as she leans over and looks down over the rocks below. 

She thinks of Ashara Dayne and what might have been her thoughts during her final moments. Then she thinks of her father, her mother, Arya, Robb, Bran and Rickon, the sound of steel hitting her father’s neck, the sting of Joffrey’s palm on her cheek, the sound of the crowd roaring in approval, the tug of an imp that humiliated her further by making her kneel to wed him. 

She thinks of all this before she wonders how it will feel to fall.

* * * * *

The days are long, the nights longer. She spends her days in the garden, walking among the roses and imagining a life in Highgarden with a gallant knight by her side. She then visits the sept, kneeling in her rich silks to pray for the family she has lost and the sister she fears is dead. There is no one to befriend, for even though the people around her are many, they fear the Lannisters as much as she does. As she is a named Lannister, they now fear her as well. When she smiles, they cower, when she calls to them, they flinch. It saddens her that she is so well disliked, when she was once the most pleasing Stark after her mother.

Some days, she would stay abed and cry, remembering the mistakes she has made and wishing that she had never been so young and stupid. And some days, she is numb to the slight breeze and the prettiness of flowers, simply sitting by the window and thinking of her life as a bird in a cage. 

There is one thing that pleases her of this life. Sansa does not see her husband as often as a wife must. She sees him only at meals as they sit on separate ends of a long wooden table that can seat twenty men, with dishes overflowing with rich food and delicious desserts. She usually waits for her husband to attend the meal, which he does getting later each day. He asks her how her day has been and she lies to make it sound pleasant. She asks him how his day has been and she feels that he lies as well as she does. He buries himself in meat and mead, she notices, his eyes sad and resigned as he eats quickly and leaves her to her own devices. 

She takes great pleasure in his sadness, a fact she has tried to mask, but fails in greatly. He reminds of her of every slap Joffrey has bestowed on her, every hurt that she has suffered. Her reminds her of the King’s Road and that Lady is no longer by her side, that her father is dead, along with her mother, her brothers and most probably her sister. He reminds her of the cruelty she didn’t know existed until she had fallen for the sparkling Lannister gold that they polish with sweet words and lies. 

He reminds her of evil, and she gladly keeps her distance.

“Will you be sleeping in the other bedchamber tonight, my lord?” she asks dutifully, as she must, her voice soft and her back stiff. She wonders each night if he will climb onto her bedding and claim his right as is expected of him, only to find her fear wasted before it is renewed on the following day. 

He raises his cup high, an ugly smile twisting his lips as he says, “For as long as you wish, my lady.” He is mocking in his words, but she does not correct him. 

If he finds her as displeasing as she finds him, she thinks that her marriage might survive more years than she first thought.

She spends her days in a haze, dreaming of a life of what might have been and thanking her mother’s gods for giving her a husband that does not wish to touch her. 

Out of all things that she is given, the riches, the silks and the flowers, that is what she is most grateful for.

* * * * *

The raven arrives with swift wings bringing dark words in its wake.

“The king,” states her husband with a slight curl in of lip, “summons us.”

They sit across the long table for dinner, her husband refusing mead for the first time in several moon cycles. 

Sansa feels her back stiffen as she looks on at the Lannister sitting before her. “Us?” she whispers, because she dares not hope that Joffrey calls on someone other than her.

His eyes—his mismatched eyes—study her carefully, apology in their depths. “He wishes to see you, my lady. He wishes us to travel to the Red Keep within the fortnight. It doesn’t matter to him that such a feat is impossible,” he mutters under his breath.

Sansa stares at him unfeelingly. She has heard of how cruel Joffrey has become. His actions have been told from one person to another, his exploits nearly shaming the actions of the Mad King. 

“If you wish,” her husband states hesitating, “I could refuse him.”

“What would he do if you refuse him?” she asks softly, wishing her voice has stayed steady as she spoke the words. 

“Joffrey, I can handle. My father…” His fist tightens on the table and Sansa stares, fascinated. “He summons us as well.”

She understands what a refusal would mean. She has lived her life sadly, yet protected. She cannot understand why Joffrey wouldn’t let her live her life away from him and in peace. “Then, we must go.”

He stares at her for a moment, words stuck on the tip of his tongue before he sighs. “Then we must go.” 

Sansa excuses herself quickly, only to run to her bedchamber and crumple on the floor in a heap like a crying child.

* * * * *

King’s Landing is not as she remembers it. When she had first entered the kingdom, the place was lively with sounds and smells, now it is simply full of death and decay. She sees too many people on the streets begging for scraps, their skin pulled taught over bones that can easily be seen. It breaks Sansa’s heart. She even sees her husband’s jaw lock dangerously as he surveys the kingdom through one eye, keeping himself hidden behind a curtain of silk as the carriage moves forward.

They do not speak, for they have never had much to say. But, Sansa feels like she may know his thoughts better now than before. When his gaze meets hers, she sees her own apprehension reflected in his eyes. 

Joffrey Baratheon, the boy sitting before her on the ugly Iron Throne does not look like he has changed save for his appearance. He is taller, shoulders broader, and Sansa is bereft to admit that he is more handsome than she had known him to be. But she has seen his soul, and she has no doubt that his heart is just as bleak, dark and full of violence as before. 

He greets them generously, his words sweet, but his gaze studying her too carefully to allow the tension to sink from her shoulders. His grandfather is polite, yet cold. After a few more forced pleasantries they are excused to their rooms.

Sansa realises the reason for Joffrey’s pleasing behaviour as soon as their chamber is shown to them. It is no better than a servant’s quarters with insufficient room for her clothes let alone her lord husband’s. 

Her husband’s anger is visible, but she stays it by placing a hand on his shoulder. He eyes her warily, for it has been several moons since they were wedded and this is the first time she has touched him willingly. 

“It is only a short while.”

“It is for a moon’s cycle,” he says through gritted teeth. “You cannot stay in a place such as this, my lady. I won’t allow it.”

“You must,” she says sternly. “If you truly care about me, my lord, you will let us stay here peacefully and without issue.”

He falters then, his small hands taking hers from his shoulder and holding fingers amongst his own. “I promise you that he shall not take anything else away from you. On my honour as a Lannister, I give you my word.”

She does not say anything, but she does smile. Her poor husband, as kind as he has been to her, he really is ignorant if he thinks that Joffrey will not find another way to hurt her.

* * * * *

It is a fortnight past when she angers Joffrey.

He requests her presence for a meal and she declines, stating illness that does not exist. She spends the day abed, placing a heated wet cloth over her head warmed by the fire. Her husband, although questioning her kindly, does not say much. She fears that he might know of her farce. 

“The king says that you must come at once for supper,” he says, his tone light, yet worried. 

Sansa raises herself from the bedding to watch her husband as he pulls on his boots. She stifles the guilt she feels that he sleeps in a chair every night while she sleeps on soft silk. “The king says a great many things.”

He smiles, and she does too. “He does say a great many things, doesn’t he? Most of them with the intelligence of a squabbling child.”

She tries to stifle her laughter but fails. His grin widens as he straightens his clothing. 

“Very well. I shall do my best to represent you, my lady. Although, I fear that I will be a poor substitute.”

Kind words of affection are on the tip of her tongue, but she says, “Thank you, my lord,” instead. 

He smiles, and she feels her heart lighten somewhat. After he leaves she buries herself under the covers and attends to blissful sleep.

She is awoken much later by a stinging slap, her covers being yanked off her mercilessly as her hair is pulled roughly. Sansa screams, only to have a palm slapped across her lips, as rough fingers tighten around her mouth and bruise her cheeks. 

Her eyes widen as Joffrey’s face comes close to her in the nearing dark, the candlelight placing an ominous glow on his usually handsome face. 

“You bitch,” he hisses, his face contorting angrily. “You ungrateful bitch. You are no better than a dog.” He yanks on her hair harder and Sansa whimpers. “Is this how you thank me for being generous? I should have taken from you what you wanted to give me long time ago.”

She begins to struggle when he straddles her, pinning her down with his body as he roughly pulls away her garment. Sansa screams through it all, her throat choking on the sound as he sneers hateful words, his face more monstrous and ugly than she has ever seen before. 

She wonders why such a fate much befall her after she has lost so much.

_Please,_ she begs of him, her words lost behind his hand as she feels his hand push up her nightgown and place his hand between her legs. _Please, don’t._

He stops suddenly, eyes widening, his grip falling slack, and then he looks down. She does the same, her chest heaving and her hair falling over her eyes. She sees the blade in his chest the same time he does. He raises his head slowly, blood spewing from his mouth and choking him for a moment before he falls forward. 

Sansa scrambles back, his hand falling from her as he collapses onto the bed. She takes a deep, shuddering breath while her eyes burn with unshed tears. All she wants to do is scream. But she can’t. She shivers instead because she cannot do anything else. 

Her husband stands on the side of her bed, his fist tightened around the dagger. He looks as surprised as her, his eyes panicked when he meets hers. 

“Sansa…” 

He lets go of the dagger and steps forward, but she flinches. He stops, a look of hurt settling on his features that seem too foreign to her. 

“We must leave,” he says calmly. “They will know it was me. They will think that you were an accomplice. They will kill us for this.”

Sansa shakes her head as she curls within herself. How did life that should be of songs become so wrong? 

“Sansa…” he says again, his eyes kind. “Come with me. Please.” He holds out his hand, one so much smaller than hers and covered in blood.

She knows he speaks the truth, she knows that she must leave, yet…

She takes his hand and feels her heart lighten when he smiles. 

“I’ll take you across the narrow sea,” he promises. “I will ensure that you have a nice house, maybe something close to the mountains.” He pulls her hand closer, placing it over his heart that is beating as fast as hers. “You shall want for nothing. I promise, Sansa, I _promise_ that you shall the life you deserve. One that is away from the Lannisters.” His smile turns sad. “One that is away from me.”

She shakes her head before she knows. “No,” she says softly. “I go where you go.”

He falters. “Sansa—“

“Where you go, I go,” she says again, to her knight who never looked like a knight until now. He is shorter than most men, yet he does deeds much bigger.

He nods before pulling her hand to help her stand. “We must make haste.”

Sansa does as her husband says, whilst ignoring the bright red stain on her nightgown.


End file.
